


Good Morning, Sunshine

by Fishadee



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Art, F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishadee/pseuds/Fishadee
Summary: The Quad Squad deal with hangovers in the best way possible.  (Faux, Daxx, and Russet)





	Good Morning, Sunshine

Soapy is _loud_ when she comes, something between the ear-splitting shriek of a woman who has lost control of the volume of her voice and a sexy siren intent on dragging folks to one little death after another. While at _any other point in time_ Faux would jump at the opportunity to hear (or, perhaps, _cause_ ) her to do said banshee howling, at six in the morning after a long, long, _long_ night of clubbing, carousing, and copious amounts of drinking... he would _really rather not_. He can’t fault her for having a good time with whomever she’s in there with, whether she’s just coming in or just waking up (because Soapy _somehow_ exists as both a night owl and an early bird) because were he within his right mind, without a ten ton hangover, he would be doing the same. Hell, if she were involved he’s pretty sure he would suck up the headache and plow her anyway. ...but in lieu of that, could she at least show some common courtesy and _try_ to bite a pillow? Please?

Another solution Faux would accept were if she would just bring home people who have the staying power of a poorly put together bomb: liable to go off early and at inopportune times, with an underwhelming blast. Then at least those who aren’t involved in Soapy’s early morning calisthenics routine (read: him) could go back to sleep after her wake-up trumpeting. Faux learns there are no kind gods in this world because twenty minutes pass, then thirty, and when the howls continue at full strength he is left to do everything in his power to smother himself under his blankets and sheets and pillows and clothes. The more he tries to _not listen_ to her the more he hears her, the more her pitched moans burrow into the throb of his hangover headache, and the more and more they cause _another_ throb _somewhere else_. Nine times out of ten that would be a fine and dandy situation for Faux to find himself in, but he’s left with _no idea_ on how to fall back asleep while his traveling companion-cum-roommate cums more than her fair share one wall over. Compound that with sporting enough wood to build a three-tier deck? This is his lot in life, now. This is how he dies.

Faux considers his options, limited and involving too-much-thinking as they are. One: he gets up, ignores both Soapy _and_ his dick and goes about his day. (Bad. Terrible. Scratch that.) Two: he bangs on the wall and counters her caterwauling with his own demands to shut up and let him sleep more. (Potential solution, except it doesn’t fix his hard on and he’s sure Soapy would only be able to contain herself for thirty seconds, max.) Three: he jerks off. (Occam's razor, a simple solution is better than a complex one. Very enticing at the moment. Turns the porn star noises into built-in entertainment, _and_ he can sleep more afterwards.) He considers a few more options in half alive (but no longer half asleep) state which include asphyxiation-by-pillow and pulling stuffing out for makeshift earplugs before his hand inches down under the tented blanket for his built-in tentpole.

A hangover-laden jerk off session goes about as well as Faux expects: one hand wrangles with his cock while the other keeps the pillow pressed firm to his face in a misguided and fruitless attempt to dampen the noise. Soapy’s pipes are never a problem when _he's_ the one doing the fucking, but right now? All he wants for Winter Veil is for Soapy to develop a fetish for ball gags. _That_ mental image carries him for a good while, double so with the wall and pillow working double duty on muffling the sound quality to a fitting and accurate level. Maybe he likes the idea of her pretty rainbow-colored lips wrapped snug around a gag stuffed into her toothy little maw, big bright eyes rolling back in her head while he fucks her into next week. Maybe he likes the idea _a lot_. Maybe his prick seconds the idea because it plumps up past half chub and into _register as a deadly weapon_ territory in _very_ short order.

The eventual result of arousal meets Booty Bay heat and humidity (even at six in the damn morning) is an oppressive weight that simmers him within his bed sheets. At first it’s comfortable, but Faux can only survive his early morning exertion for so long before he pauses to banish the blanket, throwing it half off the bed and reveling in the rush of comparatively cool air as it shivers along his sweat-beaded skin and pricks up goosebumps along his arms and chest. A shudder passes up his spine and Faux takes a moment to settle back into the bed, splaying his legs apart in an effort to search out cooler spots on the sheets; a futile effort, but he tries anyway.

It doesn’t take long before he realizes the downside to an otherwise foolproof plan. See, the thing is Faux is very tired and _very_ lazy, even on the best of days, and he has a _lot_ of cock to stroke. In short order he learns that jerking off is more effort than he’s willing to commit to, which might be a potential new low for even his levels of _cannot be fucking assed to do the thing_. Instead of the quick shoot-and-snore he planned on he drags his fingers down his veiny shaft, slides them back up to squeeze just behind the ridge of the head and repeats. Maybe if he teases it long enough, gives it just enough attention to not twitch with the beat of his heart, he'll fall back asleep and not care about the noise _or_ the arousal...

...and _that_ is a great plan up until warm heat envelops the crown of his prick, lips fit snug around his shaft and smooth teeth tucked right below the swell of his cockhead. It’s hot and wet and a soft tightness that hits him with glorious relief and Faux sighs, air pulled from his lungs by a talented tongue that swirls around his tip, dances along where his foreskin connects under the head, and then sweeps down-down-down his shaft. He gasps, struggles to reclaim his stolen breath, pants in one shuddery sigh after another and he has to wonder: _whose mouth is on his cock?_

That question, like many questions in his life, must be first met with a query of a far more simple and pertinent nature: _does it fucking matter?_ No? No. Whether his mystery cocksucker is secretly Daxx or Russet or one of the club hoppers they invited back for the after-after-after party, it doesn't matter. What matters is he doesn't have to do anything other than lay there and get his dick sucked and Faux considers that the greatest gift in the known world. A gullet sliding onto his cock is, in all honesty, secondary to his limitless desire to be as lazy as possible. Not that he’s complaining; Faux is content to let the mystery mouth bob on his prick and gulp him down over and over and over until his toes dig into the sheets and he's about ready to arch his back up off the bed, ready for his balls to tighten and cock to pulse in the final moments before his peak hits--

The mouth disappears. Faux groans, desperation and displeasure thick in his voice as his prick jerks against the cool air (cool by comparison; nothing about Booty Bay is anything but swelteringly hot). He _should_ just grab it and finish himself off; three strokes max and he knows the orgasm would overtake him, would spill thick ropes of cum all over himself and he could clean it up after a nap--

"You gonna take care of that?" someone asks above him, muffled just enough to be unfamiliar. A finger presses against the slit in his tip and pulls his prick down between his legs, bends it to an almost uncomfortable degree with the tendons pulling taut at the base. He sucks in a breath between his teeth, and tenses his legs, and then the finger slips free and his cock launches upward like a catapult and slap against his belly. _Rude._

Faux shrugs in return.

"I should," he tells a mouthful of pillow and makes no move to do any such thing. The finger returns to his dick and repeats the stomach dickslap and he shifts, slides a leg off the bed and vaguely kicks in what he thinks is the direction of his assaulter. He misses. Damn, fighting blind is really hard.

"You should, but you won't?" Mystery Stranger teases him. Faux would put money on that it’s Daxx; Soapy’s still yowling up a storm and Russet isn’t a fucking _dick_ when a dick is involved. Daxx, though… she's a bitch like that. He knows that she won’t hesitate to edge him for three hours if she wants and leave his own laziness to keep him from finishing things early.

"Why'd you start if you weren't gonna finish it?" he says, tone even flatter under the muffle of the pillow. With any luck he’s affecting less of a _I am so tired and horny please just suck me off_ tone and more _I am too chill to be bothered by your harlot ways_. (Truth is, if he doesn't come now he'll come later so, like, what's it matter _when_ it happens as long as it happens?)

"Oh, you know, it’s bright and early, the sun is shining, came in to see if you were up and saw this big ol’ dick of yours on display like it was a meat market with a sausage special," M.S. (Mystery Stranger) says. A hand cups his ballsack and hefts the weight of it and he gets a vague sense that she’s comparing his nuts to fruit in a market stall. Ripe and juicy, ready for a lick and a nibble. The hand drops his heavy balls back down to the bed and slides up further, squeezes the base of his cock and slaps it down on his belly once, twice, thrice, even as he squirms and shifts his hips up. “Wanted a taste.”

"Did you _get_ a taste?" Faux shoots back. (The shot is blocked by the pillow which does little to enunciate his natural masculine enticement and intimidation. Just makes him sound more like a hungover goblin with a pillow on his face.)

"Mmhm,” she hums, smug contentment clear even through the sack of fluff. “You want one, too?"

"Of my own dick? Not this early."

"No contortion play first thing in the morning?"

"It is the crack of dawn, if you ask me now there'll be no breathing first thing in the morning."

"Shame, that." Weight settles on the bed, pushes a dip into the mattress next to his shoulder and shifts, swings over his chest and a matching dip presses down on his other side. "Do you want me to help with that?"

"Breathing?"

"Not breathing."

"I like breathing," Faux argues, weak, tired, resigned to having a hangover at six a.m. and hearing Soapy moan like she's preparing for her role as a banshee in a Darkmoon Faire pornographic production. Something (someone) pulls at his pillow and he clutches at the lumpy bag of stuffing for a moment before he relinquishes it to its new owner. His keeps his eyes closed, though; he's made _that_ mistake before, forgot to close the curtains and found a reward of a faceful of sunlight after a night full of moonglow. Not fun.

"Okay, then I'll only help a little." The weight at his shoulders moves upwards, frames the sides of his head and he smells a familiar damp heat a bare moment before pubic hair presses up to the underside of his nose and wet folds meet his already parted lips. This, he can deal with; this requires like, minimal work and no craning his neck in weird directions, and no moving his hips or clenching his thighs or _effort_. No early morning aerobics or arm cramps from vigorous fingerbanging in a rare attempt to get somebody off… nah. Faux drags his tongue upwards, splits soft folds and laps his way across her entrance and up to the firm bud of her clitoris. His lips close around it and he sucks _hard_.

He thinks, _hey, breakfast in bed_ and snorts a laugh as the body perched pretty on his face convulses at the suction.

Soapy is, somehow, _somehow_ still going, gold only knows the how or why. Maybe she's got two, three. Maybe four people in there. _Maybe it's a six a.m. orgy_. Either way, she needs to learn to how to suffer a hangover like everyone else and spend the morning like a regular person who knows how to wallow in bed and groan about how terrible the day is. Like Faux is! Look how terrible this day is, laying flat on his back with a mystery stranger’s cunt pressed tight to his face, fingers tangled up in his tangled hair while thigh thighs frame his face and hug at his jaw and ears and a glorious fat ass that his fingers just _sink_ into...  
It only takes that double handful of bangin’ booty to ascertain that this is _absolutely_ Daxx. But that dick sucking wasn't Daxx's style, that begs the further question of--

The question blows out of his mind like dandelion seeds scattered in a hurricane when the mouth returns, swallows his cock up in one smooth gulp that about pulls him apart at the seams. Faux reins it back in quick; he doesn't dare give up his load before he gets Daxx writhing on his face, he's too _prideful_ for that. Is Mystery Stranger Number Two Russet, or a true unknown entity? If it weren't for more _pressing_ matters (literally pressing right onto his face and threatening to suffocate him if he doesn’t hold his nose just right) he could play “Gnome or Gnot” by the scratch of stubble or a particular pattern of suck-suck-bob-lick that the little cocksucker defaults to.

In lieu of a more informed estimation, Faux goes ahead and puts his chips in the _that’s definitely Russet_ corner based on a roughshod conclusion shoved together due to Russet’s _very well known_ love of performing oral sex, combined with the fact that Daxx can stand very, very few people this early in the morning and Russet is one of a select few pegged squarely in the _tolerable_ corner. Add in the fact that the dude is known for being quiet-as-a-mouse and deceptively polite and tidy in his blowjob performance, and Faux is pretty dang sure that he knows who is between his legs and esophagus deep on his dick.

[](http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7863/32144747777_a0fc32ecb1_b.jpg)

So with that in mind Faux does his best to get Daxx to pop off while he struggles to prevent himself from doing the same. He’s got a hunch that she’s doing the same, a hunch that’s more or less confirmed when she loosens her grip into his hair before one hand departs, and half a moment later the mouth wrapped around his cock makes a sudden descent until Faux feels nothing more than the squeeze of a throat and lips wrapped around the root of his dick. _That’s_ playing dirty and his hands grip onto Daxx’s hips, pulls her down and pins her in place so she can’t squirm away from the literal tongue lashing he aims direct on her clit. Somewhere in the great beyond past her thighs he hears her gasp and swear at him, grinds down onto his face at the same time he jerks up into the mouth sheathing his cock like it was possible to penetrate any deeper.

It's a pretty amazing arrangement, one that works out pretty perfect until a rapid-fire series of fortunate events goes off one after another like a firework display booming into the sky: Daxx fists into Faux’s hair, fingers clenched in a death grip as his hand slides off her ass in favor of reaching for Mystery Dick Sucker. His fingers dig into the hair he finds, soft and clean and fluffy in some swoopy productless style that _has_ to be Russet, no if-ands-or-buts, and Faux clenches his fingers in against Russet's scalp and switches from enjoying the blowjob to participating in with a jackhammer speed facefucking. Daxx grinds down on his mouth like she aims to suffocate him and hump herself to orgasm on his teeth, shoves her mound against his septum while his tongue digs up under her clit hood and flicks back and forth across the fleshy nub with more speed and force than he knows she finds comfortable. 

Time freezes; nothing exists except for the want for pleasure and the want to _cause_ pleasure, that hot burning clench of _need_ in his belly and the near painful clamp somewhere behind his taint and he’s so _close_ that for a moment he worries he’s going to lose the unspoken competition. Then his balls pull up and his cock throbs and he thinks-- absolutely nothing. He thinks _absolutely fucking nothing_ because the peak hits him just as Daxx's hits her (and he can tell by the pulse and squeeze and twitch of her, nevermind the telltale reserved moan that catches in her throat, that he hears even through the earmuffs that her thighs are masquerading as) and his mind goes white out blank as he shoots his load, rope after rope of thick cum right down Russet's throat. They ride the waves of pleasure out like sailors lost at sea and collapse back to the bed in a boneless pile of overheated bodies moments later. Faux gives himself a moment to take in a breath of fresh air and plants a hand on one of Daxx's tits, fingers tucked under the sides of her nipple ring, and he gives it a retaliatory squeeze like he's testing a melon. Ripe as ever.

"Russet?" he asks a half moment later, the word slurred from half numb, friction-raw lips.

"Yeah?" Weight shifts on the bed and Russet appears next to him a moment later, curls up at his side and drops his head onto Faux’s shoulder like a flush-faced little angel. One of Russet’s legs, as well as his half chubby prick, drapes over Faux’s thigh as he settles in and catches his own breath. Dick sort of has a habit of clogging up the airways, it’s a problem at times.

[](http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7829/32144748387_88bbfd1b35_b.jpg)

"You good, my man?" Faux asks, concerned with Russet’s labored breath and the lingering question of _exactly how long can he hold his breath?_ The question is misinterpreted with shocking immediacy when Russet glances down at his own half-wood, dwarfed in comparison to Faux’s flagging erection, and blushes so bright he might as well start glowing.

"Oh, yeah. Daxx got me like, ten minutes ago,” Russet says, quiet and shy with an adorable smile pulling at his lips.

"Bribed him,” Daxx adds. “He didn't wanna wake you.” She digs her face into the crook of Faux's neck, careful to avoid stabbing him in the jugular with her labret spike, and he is only somewhat thankful he gets to live another day.

"I wasn't asleep.” 

"I tried t'tell him that, but he didn't wanna wake you."

"When am I ever asleep when--" Faux cuts off short, half lifts his head with his ears perked.

"...when?" Russet asks, eyebrows raised over his sleepy, half closed eyes.

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear _what_?" Daxx cranes her neck, and while she doesn't give a single fuck about whatever it is Faux hears, she does him a solid and pretends to.

" _Nothing_. Soapy's finally fucking done. I can go the fuck back to sleep." The both of them slap his chest and Faux laughs; weak, tired, and hungover, he finally drops his head back to the bed and embraces the barely-dawn not-darkness of sleep once more.

...or at least, he _tries_ until Soapy barges in thirty seconds later, excited babbling five hundred miles a minute as she jumps into the pile and pulls at arms and legs in an effort to bully the lot of them out of the bedroom and towards the closest source of breakfast.

It’ll be a _hair of the dog_ situation today, it seems. Mimosas are an acceptable breakfast drink, yes? They better be, because that’s exactly what Faux will need a pitcher of to make it through the day.

Alas, fair sleep; Faux knew ye for so little time, and not near well enough.


End file.
